


Belladonna

by spirrum



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, and Merrill is Merrill, in which Carver is smitten
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-05 23:44:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4199607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirrum/pseuds/spirrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's wildflower-pretty, with deep roots in a blood-soaked soil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Belladonna

There’s some kind of irony in it – him falling for a mage.

His father was a mage, and both his sisters. But though he doesn’t possess the ability, Carver has a fairly good understanding of magic. He knows the dangers; flames lapping at small fingers, growing out of control, and Marian’s shriek before Father’s larger hands come to close around hers, stifling the fire. Bethany refusing to sleep, for fear of the Fade. She’d crawl into his bunk, and he’d try to keep her awake, talking of nothing and everything into the long hours. He’d fail, more often than not, and feel ashamed at feeling relief when she’d finally drift off. Then he would be the one to spend the night sleepless, worrying if he should have done more to keep her awake; if she will wake if he shakes her, and if he should call for Father or not. 

No, Carver is no stranger to the dangers of magic, but he knows the good things, too. ‘Household magic’, Malcolm had called it, with the charming smile his eldest sister inherited upon her birth. A calm flame used for cooking, and cold to keep food lasting longer. And other little tricks to keep pests away and the crops good and growing. Carver does not fear magic; it’s hard to, growing up with three apostates and ample lectures about responsible use. 

Kirkwall changes things. Malcolm and Bethany are gone, and the only one to keep him up at night is himself, visiting old ghosts. It’s harder to hide magic in Kirkwall, but his sister keeps busy, thriving in the underbelly of the city as she’d thrive anywhere, and he follows, ever wary of passing templars and scowling Chantry sisters. Another danger of magic is being caught using it, something Hawke appears cheerfully unconcerned about, and so Carver begins to fear _for_  her. It’s not so much a fear of magic as it is a fear of the fate that awaits reckless apostates, but his concerns are not shared by Marian, nor the two mages that find their way into their midsts. The Warden renegade keeps an illegal clinic under the Circle’s nose, and the Dalish elf hoards a magic mirror in her house, and Carver begins to wonder if he shouldn’t begin fearing for himself instead. 

He doesn’t, of course, but then good sense has never been a very Hawke-like trait. 

It’s no surprise then, that he finds himself a little smitten by the Dalish blood mage with the big green eyes and the magic mirror, who speaks of spirits and demons with easy smiles and weaves her spells from the earth and the blood in her veins. Her hands are gentle, pale things, deceptively small but scarred, palms and wrists and fingers bedecked with marks, but with her fair complexion it’s hard to spot them. In fact, Carver doesn’t notice until he  _feels_  them, a multitude of bumps and ridges against the soft dip of her palms when she winds her fingers through his to help him up when he’s taken a tumble. 

Carver understands magic, but he doesn’t understand her magic (or what’s more likely, he doesn’t understand her). His sister is intrigued, enchanted by the unknown and the dangerous, but Carver has their father’s wary cynicism, a legacy far less charming than Marian’s smile. And he ought to be cynical. He is, in the beginning, hard frowns trailing after the little elf that has joined their ragtag group. He wants to be suspicious, but she makes it difficult, with her ball of twine and her rambling words falling over one another on their way off her tongue. She shows up one day to ask for milk, for the kittens she’s found by the clinic. The day after she brings daisies, as a thank-you and to ‘brighten up the place’, and though Gamlen grumbles about allergies, Carver places them by the window, trying very hard not to look directly at the beaming smile where she stands in the doorway. 

And elf or not, she’s just a girl then, like any other. Sweet of nature and thought. 

Then they’ll be at the coast, and he’ll watch her casually rip creatures apart with her magic, and in the next moment point to a pretty bird that’s flown by, exclaiming with delight even as the blood trails macabre patterns down her fingers. 

It takes time to come to terms with it – the blood magic and the daisies and the big, green eyes that speak of innocence while from her mouth spills dark spells that he wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole, even if he were a mage. And even Hawke is a little wary of what Merrill is truly capable of, and if anything should give him pause, it’s his eldest sister advocating  _caution_. 

But Merrill is Merrill, and they get used to the blood. 

Their friendship is unlike the one she shares with his sister, but Carver does not mind. It’s small smiles exchanged across the table in the tavern, and stumbling, slightly awkward chats that end with throats cleared in amusement and Hawke grinning wickedly from over her shoulder. She’s funny without intending to be (not like Hawke, who revels in poorly timed jokes, or Isabela, who is just…dirty), and it’s when he finds himself smiling into space at odd moments that Carver knows he’s in deep. He doesn’t know what to make of his newfound realization, if she’s aware and reciprocates or if she’s cheerfully oblivious. Some days he’ll think the former, but then she’ll say something that will have him dismiss the whole idea and feel like throwing himself off the docks for even considering it a possibility. 

But then she rises to the tip of her toes one night after Wicked Grace, cheeks flushed with the Hanged Man’s finest and laughter bubbling up from her throat, to catch his mouth in a sloppy kiss. And he’s so startled he barely manages to reciprocate before something draws her attention, pulling her away, and he’s left feeling ten years younger; the poor sap that had stood at the edge of Barlin’s field for three hours waiting for the seamstress’ eldest daughter to come steal a kiss after supper. She’d never showed up, but Merrill does the next day, with slightly bloodshot eyes and an apology, and a promise that it had not been entirely unintended (”Not that it was planned or anything! I mean, I have thought about it, but not like, a lot? And – oh, I’ve made a mess of things, haven’t I?”). And she reaches for him with her soft hands, with her scars and the blood beneath her fingernails. It’s a gesture made with care, in case he should recoil, or push her away. 

She’s used to that, he knows – people keeping a distance, holding her at arm’s length. To be the odd one out in her clan, and again in the Alienage. Never quite a good fit, like a plant with roots too large for its pot. 

And Carver knows all about being the odd one out. 

He doesn’t draw back. Instead he takes her hands and holds them, and – feels very much the sap at the edge of the field, young and foolish and heart filled to the brim with a strange and reckless hope, the sort the Blight and Kirkwall should have purged (the sort he’d thought only his sister capable of). There’s not much room for hope in this city, but Merrill’s smile is bright and wide and lovely, her cheeks flushed but not from any kind of drink this time. 

The kiss is a little awkward, a little fumbling with their heights and her small hands still cradled in his. But it’s an earnest attempt, and it’s more a show of trust than anything else. He’s not out to seduce (he’s not Isabela), or to sweep her off her feet ( _again_ , he’s not Isabela). And it’s not to show that he trusts  _her_ , rather it’s the opposite – that she can trust him, for whatever it is worth. 

She’s still smiling when he pulls back, and he’s sorely tempted to ask if she liked it. (Then he thinks of what Hawke would say, and is momentarily distracted by the image of his sister laughing herself into a heart attack.)

By the Maker’s mercy, Merrill is the first to speak. “Carver?” 

“I – yes?” 

There’s a twinkle in her eye, and oh, she’s a girl alright, different race be damned. “Would you like me to teach you how to kiss?” 

He figures that he should probably no longer be surprised at the things that come out of her mouth, but he can’t stop the startled laugh, or what follows. “If I say ‘yes’, would you consider not telling my sister?”

Her grin widens, lovely still but clever like a cat’s, and he knows her answer even before she chirps, “Oh, not a chance!” 

Then she rises to her tiptoes again, and there are twigs and green things in her hair and blood under her fingernails, but Carver does not mind. Magic is magic, and Merrill is Merrill. 

And you get used to the blood. 


End file.
